Halo: Isolation
by Marc Bedragare
Summary: Trapped on a gargantuan ringworld and on a collision course with an alien world, two legendary supersoldiers must fight for their own survival, the survival of a planet with millions of souls, and a weapon so vast and advanced that it could secure humanity's future... or annihilate the galaxy.
1. Chapter 1

(This fanfiction is based off of events in the Google+ community **_Halo Universe RP,_** based off the eponymous video game franchise. I do not own this community, nor do I own all characters presented in this story. Credit to username: John -A222 and the people of the HURP for making this possible.)

(I will provide context for the sake of the viewer.)

( _In the UNSC colony world of **Trost** , in the **Delta Forti system** , an outbreak of the virulent parasite, the Flood, threatens to consume the star system and the galaxy. With the help of **Heritage of Broken World** , a relict Forerunner warrior, a Halo ring is discovered encased in ice in the system's Oort Cloud. This ring, **Instillation 02** , is humanity's only hope of cleansing the system of the Flood. An alliance of the UNSC and the Swords of Sanghelios stage a last ditch effort to fire the ring. A three way-battle between the alliance, the Flood and the protectors of the Halo, the Sentinels, rages across the surface of the planetoid that has formed around the ring. Tunneling down into the ice, two Spartans fight their way to the Control Room. Having acquired the **Activation Index** that will prime the Halo, these Spartans, Spartan III **John-A222** and Spartan IV **Marc Bedragare** , wage a desperate fight for their lives and the lives of every sentient being in the galaxy.)_

(No more delays. Enjoy the story.)

* * *

The sword expires. A222 looks around for another weapon. A tank form rushes and slams the him back. The Spartan rolls and slides on the floor. The tank forms emit a guttural laugh as they approach the downed Spartan. A222, on his back now, reaches over and grabs a plasma grenade.

* * *

Bedragare snatches up the Index and pushes it into the terminal. There is a low humming noise, then a huge burst of light that knocks Bedragare off his feet. He jumps up immediately and starts calibrating the Halo's range and yield. Outside, the ice starts to crack.

* * *

A222 lays there, his shields slowly recharging. He places his thumb on the plasma grenade primer, and the sphere hums. He comms, "A222 to all UNSC forces. He pauses. Leave... Leave the system... To Beta Forti..."

* * *

Bedragare finishes his work on the Halo. It will deliver a pulse with a radius of two light years, enough to purge Delta Forti and its planets. The pulse will be the same as before. Anything with a nervous system, including the Flood, including him and John, will be rendered into dust.

* * *

He steps back as the beam of light and energy starts to pulse. He reaches up and pulls off his helmet, squinting in the light and dropping the helmet.

* * *

The grenade hum grows to a louder ring. The Spartan looks at the tank forms.

* * *

Great rifts appear in the ice, accompanied by deafening cracks. It comes off in chunks the size of continents, until the Halo is freed, surrounded by comets and debris.

* * *

Inside, Bedragare opens the hidden pocket in his left chestplate. He pulls out a photograph, beaten and torn. He looks at the image and smiles.

She complained that day. She said she didn't want to have her picture taken when holo-stills were so much newer, faster and better. He told her that photographs are, in some ways, the most important things in human history. She made a face, but held still once he bribed her with ice cream and a moa burger. They had such a good time that day. The day before he shipped out to Trost. Thanks to the ghost in his head, he never sent her a message on her eighteenth birthday. Prom. Her graduation. He blinks away a tear.

Photos are better than holo-stills. You can't take holo-stills with you. He closes his eyes and holds the photo tight in his hand.

* * *

Behind his visor, A222 closes his eyes and feels the grenade shake in his hand. "Going Nova..."

* * *

Around the Halo, the UNSC fleet, the Sangheili Carrier _Zeal and the Judgement_ all disappear into Slipspace.

In orbit above Trost, the scant few Sangheili ships remaining retreat into Slipspace as well. The Gravemind screams, not in victory, but in sorrow and agony.

A great beam of energy lances from the control room, collecting in the center of the Halo like a star. A second bolt launches from the Library, moving lazily to the dancing current in the origin.

Then they connect. Marc and John vanish in light.

A white wave of energy cascades outward from the ring, washing over everything. It grows brighter, faster, clearer. Finally, it flows over Trost.

Gargantuan Flood constructs break apart and blur. Spores vanish from the air. In the oceans, in the valleys, on the plains and across the planet. All life more complex than plants and cells are enveloped. They blur in the light.

And they die.

The wave continues, swallowing the whole system and crashing back in on itself, breaking apart and shattering into background radiation. A nebulous cloud of energy lingers about the Halo a moment longer, and vanishes.

The photo flutters to the cold, dead, metal floor.

* * *

 **Halo: Isolation**  
 **Chapter 1**

 _Two hours after firing._

Marc drifts in a state of oblivion. He feels no pain, no comfort, no anger, no joy. In fact, he feels nothing at all. A numb, silent oblivion. All thoughts, all memories are simply absent.

 _So, this is death._

A sensation brings him away from his zen state. Cold. He furrows his brow. _The dead don't feel cold_. Other sensations follow. Tingling, then waves of dull, persistent pain. His eyes snap open.

Marc is lying on his side. His arm is balled up underneath him, cramping. He shifts it, and pushes himself into a sitting position. There is a faint blue glow coming from... somewhere. He blinks, confirming that his eyes are working. A sudden wave of nausea rolls over him, and he doubles over, dry heaving. After what felt like many minutes, he composes himself somewhat. He reaches and taps the pad attached to his right gauntlet. The screen flares to life, illuminating the immediate area a cool blue.

The Commander is lying a few feet to his left. Marc straightens, pushing himself to his feet. He strides over to John and kicks something blended into the floor, sending it skittering across the floor. His helmet. He retrieves it, slipping it over his head. As it seals, the HUD lights up the room with night vision. He looks over at John. The commander's vitals appear on the screen. Alive. Unconscious, but alive.

He looks around the room. Forerunner, clearly. But not the Control Room. The blue light, it seems, is coming from the architecture itself. A great window takes up one wall. Outside it is a swirling gray fog. Marc glances around again. Something about it all is familiar... A voice interrupts his thoughts.

"Then you are alive." It is deep, resonant and easily recognizable. He turns and looks up. Standing above the two is the Seneschal. Heritage. The last known Forerunner. "And well it is. Humanity needs heroes, not martyrs."

The Promethean is dressed in soft, bluish robes. His armor rotates in a cloud above him, seemingly eager to embrace him again. His wide, flat face is staring intently at the blue holographic orb in front of him. His hands glide across the surface, tapping and rotating dozens of glyphs. Sudden anger flares up within Marc. "There were dozens of moments where we could have used your help. Where the hell were you?"

Heritage looks up at Marc. His blue-black eyes reveal nothing. In fact, the Forerunner betrays no emotion whatsoever. He presses his palms together, the way a parent does when dealing with an unruly child. "The Mantle is a sacred constitution. All life, no matter the complexity, no matter the importance to the galaxy at large, is valued by it. In an ultimate flourish of hypocrisy and heresy, my kind murdered the galaxy with the Halos. And humanity was preparing to do the same to your planet. I could not stop you. But I had no wish to help you in what I was sure was a suicidal gesture."

Marc hears John shift and sit up behind him. He continues. "Then why the change of heart?" The Seneschal glances behind Marc, then averts his eyes. Embarrassment? "I do not know."

John walks up to stand beside Marc. "What happened?" His voice is hoarse. Marc looks at John. The Spartan is a mess. Bits of char and melted metal coat the outside of his armor. His right gauntlet is mangled and burnt, and he keeps clenching the hand in pain. His visor, likewise, is dulled by burns. Heritage speaks and steals Marc's attention.

"I returned near the end. The majority of your allies had retreated. I was readying myself for combat when the Halo activated. My scans found you two, and I managed to tap the Halo's teleportation grid. I extracted you two simultaneously, escaping the Halo's blast with a window of time so small I cannot bear to repeat it. The neutrino blast carried into slipspace, and I only just managed to outrun it."

Spartan A222 looks around and speaks again, this time with greater strength. "And where are we now?" In response to this, Heritage gestures to a viewport. The observation window looks nearby but feels distant. After a decent walk, the Spartans arrive at the port. Looking out, through the gray fog, they see the white, black, and icy landscape of the Halo... Installation 02. A thick layer of ice still coats the ring, but the slipspace jump seemingly freed some of it. Marc turns questioningly. "So we are in slipspace and on the ring? Why?"

Heritage does not look up from orchestrating glyphs and controls in his holographic orb. "I have convinced the ring that it was in peril. Currently, it is relocating itself to a more secluded portion of the galaxy." Marc removes his helmet and rubs his forehead in sudden discomfort. "And how are we supposed to return to Trost?" To this, Heritage raises a hand. "Patience. I have planned your return carefully. While the Covenant you once fought lacked reason, at least it possessed faith."

The answer leave Marc dissatisfied and John silent. Nevertheless, it is accepted. A222 returns to the viewing window. Bedragare takes a seat on the floor, still rubbing his forehead and temples. "What happened to that voice inside me? That... second conscience?" The Forerunner looks down at him immediately. "That was the genesong of a legendary Forerunner. Legendary for his works or his atrocities is a true controversy of my time." He looks closer at Marc. "But with the firing of the Halo, it seems as if he receded." He returns his attention to the glyphs. "If you were fortunate, perhaps you retained some of his knowledge. Your mind is not yet evolved to comprehend or contain the full knowledge of a Forerunner."

Marc starts to grow frustrated but calms himself. He sits for a few moments, diving through his thoughts, searching for the rumored Forerunner knowledge. His search comes empty as he gets distracted. "How does this all work?" Heritage moves his head in what appears to be pitiful resentment. "I am not a Lifeworker. The mystery of the genesong is something that not even I fully comprehend." With that Marc is left somewhat satisfied, as if he had been fed up with feeling inferior to the Forerunner.

Suddenly, the Cryptum jolts violently. Looking out the window, it is still docked with the massive Halo. The entire ring has been shaken. It continues to jolt until suddenly, it emerges from slipspace. John instinctively draws the assault rifle from his back. Heritage speaks in observation. "Such instincts, human. Familiar to be sure." This of course, means nothing to the Spartans. The Forerunner speeds through a storm of glyphs in his control holosphere. "This certainly is unsatisfactory. We were interrupted by a foreign force." John looks up at the Forerunner. "So we weren't supposed to exit here?" Heritage is brief. "Certainly not. There is something awry to be sure."

A222 checks his assault rifle as Marc locates his hydra on the dark floor. There is a swift hiss as the Cryptum entrance unseals. After looking back to Heritage, the Spartans cautiously exit and look around. A222 moves up tactically and crouches behind a terminal. "All clear from this side." They continue forward, further toward the control room, the Cryptum still looming in the distance. The pair rounds a corner in the massive corridor, observing the architecture for any signs of a threat. Suddenly, an orange bolt of hardlight flashes past the Spartans, in between them. John and Marc look at each other and raise their weapons in unison. They study the metallic surroundings as hostiles emerge from hiding. "Contacts! Contacts!" A222 calls out, opening fire. The gunfire is partially muffled by the ominous shriek of a Promethean Crawler.

(Written by Marc Bedragare. Edited and proofread by John-A222)


	2. Chapter 2

"ScreeeeeeEEEEEEEAH!"

"Contacts, contacts! Marc, the entrance!"

"On it!"

"Human, Knights to your right!"

"Where the hell did-"

"Lancer! Get to cover!"

"Die now, false reclaimers!"

"Armigers above us."

"We're being overrun! We need to - ngh."

"JOHN!"

* * *

 ** _Halo: Isolation_**  
 **Chapter Two**

 **Four minutes earlier**

An orange bolt of hardlight flashes past the Spartans, in between them. John and Marc look at each other and raise their weapons in unison. They study the metallic surroundings as hostiles emerge from hiding. "Contacts! Contacts!" A222 calls out, opening fire. The gunfire is partially muffled by the ominous shriek of a Promethean Crawler.

"Marc, the entrance!" John's yell turns Marc on his heels. More of the hyena-like constructs gallop through the doorway on the far side of the room, spitting hardlight rounds and screaming. He raises his Hydra. "On it!" he yells, and sprints at them. A few rounds bounce off his shield. He returns fire with the grenade launcher, sending bits of hot metal and fluorescent orange scattering across the floor.

A Crawler pounces at John, and meets the stock of his rifle. He fires a few quick rounds into the squirming machine and focuses on more incoming Crawlers. Behind him, the Promethean stands still and relaxed. His light rifle is raised, and he fires every second, blowing off limbs and heads with a calm, practiced rhythm. Beyond the Cryptum, lights flash and metallic thuds accompany them. The Seneschal's voice sounds in John's head.

'Human, Knights to your right!"

Marc tackles a Crawler. The drone screeches and snaps at his face, spraying orange fluid on the lens. He grimaces, then buries his fist in its mouth, punching through layers of metal and liquid. The Crawler falls to pieces. Marc stands and sprints to the terminal beside the doors. Outside, dozens of Crawlers run en masse for the opening, filling the air with hardlight. He tucks his head in and begins randomly tapping sigils and runes. The terminal keeps beeping and turning red, refusing to cooperate. Finally, Marc huffs and puts his fist through the terminal. Sparks wash across his shield, and the doors start to close. He pries a boltshot from a dead Crawler and returns fire at the Crawlers, who have redoubled their pace. One tries lunging, and is rewarded with a haymaker and a stomp on the abdomen. the doors slide shut.

Marc turns and pauses. A symbol is glowing above the terminal. It is flickering in and out of existence. But, it is discernable. Familiar, even... Marc's eyes widen. "How the Hell did-"

"Lancer! Get to cover!" Marc snaps out of his state of shock and faces the other end of the room. Promethean Knights and Crawlers are rushing the Seneschal and John. The former is brandishing a glowing hardlight blade and ripping through a host of Crawlers. John is tucked behind a barrier, firing into a charging Knight. A Crawler leaps over the barrier in an attempt to ambush the Spartan. Drawing his combat knife, John grabs the Crawler by the rear, spins it, and drives the blade into the beast's head. Behind it all, an orange oculus focuses on Marc, staring intently and-

The binary round almost takes Marc's head off. He swears and rolls into a trench running along the walkway. Risking a peek over the lip of the ditch, he sees the Lancer has focused its attention on Heritage. It and the Seneschal charge each other with murderous intent. Their blades clash in a bright flash of orange and blue. He stands and sprints for the battle.

A Battlewagon steps over John's cover, slashing at him. He rolls away and empties the last of his ammo into it. The bullets sputter off the shields, and it warbles something in what might have been language. John drops the rifle and reaches for his sidearm, too late. The Knight hisses and raises its scattershot.

It jerks suddenly, and a wave of hardlight sears past John's helmet. The Battlewagon's blade arm juts forward and comes free. Marc is holding it. The AI screams at him and swings the scattershot toward him. Marc slaps the gun aside and buries the blade in the Knight's torso. Its yell fades as it burns away. There is a second and tertiary scream as the Lancer dies and an Alpha Crawler sounds the retreat. Marc stands straight and looks at John.

"Cutting it a bit close." The S-III says dryly. The S-IV shrugs as if it wasn't important. "I was running some errands." John bends and picks up the scattershot, and they both look to the Forerunner. He is surveying the myriad of scorch marks and twisted metal littering the length of the hall. "Where did-" Marc begins.

"I do not know," Heritage says. His voice sounds earnest, and his brow is furrowed ever so slightly. More emotion than either have ever seen from the stoic old warrior. "How do we find out?" John asks. Heritage turns and strides to the terminal at the center of the control room. The Cryptum hovers above it. He starts working in his deceptively elegant manner on the control panel. The Cryptum lowers into the abyss, making way for a large holographic projection. A blizzard of symbols cascade before them. The Seneschal speaks.

"The Halo's power is offline. I am siphoning power from the Keep to power this room, the terminal, and a few sensors. We exited Slipspace into a binary star system. Six rock planets, two in the habitable zone, and one gas giant. Approximately four thousand light years from the nearest Covenant colony, forty five hundred from the nearest human world. There is a signal coming from the fourth planet. Forerunner. scanning... interesting." A collage of images slide across the runes, showing mountains and seas, forests and deserts, towns and cities. "Catalog is here. It died eons ago, but its combat skin has maintained a link to ruins across the planet, and has gathered a sizable cache of data." The photos narrow to just the ones showing signs of alien life. "Diverse biosphere. Species ranging from microscopic to near two hundred meters. One sapient species. Near eleven thousand years of civilization. Achieved technology tier six less than a century ago. Well into its first age of industry. Projected to achieve space flight in four centuries, interstellar in five. Species is - oh." Heritage straightens. "Mantle shelter us."

"What? What is it?" Marc and John approach. Heritage taps a glyph. and the collage vanishes. A diagram of the star system appears, with the fourth planet and a smaller dot are highlighted. "The dot is the Halo. Without power, it is hurtling through realspace at twenty five thousand kilometers a second." A line showing the Halo's projected path appears, and the dot travels down the length. "Our path would take us through the barycenter of the two suns. The Halo would be heated and suffer damage, but would survive." Marc and John glance at each other. Marc is the first to speak. "Would?'

"Yes, 'would.' But, there is a complication. The Halo's path takes it across the fourth planet's orbital path." The planet and the Halo continue to move, drawing closer together. "In three day's time, their paths will intersect." The two dots meet, flash and fade. "And the Halo will smash into the planet at twenty five thousand kilometers a second."

The Spartans are silent. "Casualties?" John asks. He already knows the answer, but he doesn't know what else to say. Heritage turns and looks at him. "'The day will come like a thief. The heavens will disappear with a roar; the elements will be destroyed by fire, and the earth and everything done in it will be laid bare.' A line from a human holy book, and an apt one. The planet, the Halo, the life on both. Everything will be annihilated."

The three are silent for a long time. Finally, Marc breaks the silence. "Well, then. How do we prevent it?" Heritage's armor slides away from his face. Surprisingly, the Forerunner's expression is one of utter incredulity. More emotion than Marc thought possible. "A better question would be: 'how can three warriors accomplish such a task?' There is no possibility. The task is monumental, more than a hundred could accomplish in such a small frame of time, let alone three." Marc looks over at John.

His visor is fixed on the projection. The explosion is stuck on a loop, and the blue flash keeps reflecting off his visor. Despair is obvious in his posture. Marc straightens his shoulders. "You're forgetting that one human saved the galaxy at least twice in three months. Both times, Halos were involved. Never underestimate a Spartan. Let alone two." John perks up a bit and glances at him. His look could be one of admiration, or disbelief.

Visors are hard to read.

"He's right," John says. "If nothing else, we aren't going to just lie down and let another planet be wiped out. We will save it or die trying." Heritage looks over the two humans. His expression slowly fades from shock to admiration. "Humans. Easily the bravest species in the Librarian's myriad. Foolhardy, but brave. Very well."

He turns to the display. A scale display of the Halo appears, floating horizontally over the Cryptum like its artistic namesake. Blips appear across the surface. "These are our objectives. There are six primary objectives, and two secondary objectives. These aren't key to averting disaster, but will make it markedly less difficult." "Then we hit them," Marc says. Heritage nods. "Very well. The two secondary objectives are the centripetal generators and the teleportation grid. The former maintains the ring's gravity. the latter allows faster traversing of the ring. A two twenty two, you will take the generator. Bedragare, the grid."

"The primary objectives are the three power cores and the three drive engines. With these online, the Halo can be moved into Slipspace and will pass through the planet without causing lasting damage to neither ring nor planet. My first objective will be a core, to feed power to your two objectives. From there, we each take a core and a drive."

Heritage stands back. "If you have questions, now is the time." John is the first to speak. "Is there a backup plan we can fall on if this doesn't work?" Heritage shakes his head somberly. "I might be able to unhook the Cryptum and evacuate us. But this is the one way the planet can be saved." John makes a small nod. "What resistance can we expect?" Marc asks. "If our encounter moments ago is indicative? Armigers, Knights, possibly Sentinels. All deadly. Tread with caution."

Heritage once again approaches the terminal. "The Cryptum can teleport us to our objectives. But until the Halo's grid is online, we-" A hard light round sears past his head. The three whirl around as a voice calls out. "Die now, false Reclaimers!"

Heritage looks up as his helmet slides back across his face. "Armigers above us." As he speaks, bipedal machines drop from the darkness above, landing loudly. They are slimmer and more humanoid than Knights. Promethean soldiers. They stand and draw weapons, but not before the three open fire. The Spartans dive for cover, and Heritage projects a hardlight shield just as the soldiers return fire.

The three fight hard, but so do the soldiers. Every one that they kill is replaced by two more, it seems. They continue to stream from the dark or simply teleport into existence. It isn't long before Marc's boltshot clicks empty. "I'm out!" John hears this, and slides the scattershot across the floor to Marc. He draws his magnum as Marc catches the gun. "We're being overrun! We need to-" John's cover explodes, pelting Heritage and Marc with bits of metal. A soldier carrying a Z-390 yells in victory.

"JOHN!" Marc bolts from cover. Rounds splash off his shields, dropping them at an alarming rate. He doesn't care. He slides and reaches John. The S-III's armor is smoking and crackling. His vitals are going all over the place, but stabilizing as Marc watches. _He's Stunned_. He positions himself between John and the soldiers, shielding him. "Get us out of here!"

On the far side of the hall, the doors explode inward. Something passes through the smouldering threshold. Something obscured by the smoke. Something _big_. It bellows in a metallic voice, dripping with pure rage and hate. It raises an almost-ridiculously oversized incineration cannon. And fires.

The three disappear in a white flash once more. A hair second before the area they were standing on is annihilated. The construct roars again, its anger and futility rippling outward and forcing the soldiers to their knees.

Its screams are lost in the great expanse of the Halo.

 **To be continued in Halo: Isolation, Chapter Three.**

(Co-written by Marc Bedragare and John-A222.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Halo: Isolation**  
 **Chapter Three**

Another wave of nausea rolls over Marc as he is pulled into and out of slipspace in the span of a few milliseconds. He barely manages to twist in the air before he gracelessly slams into a field of pack ice. Pain jabs through his back,and he manages to choke down both a yelp and a mouthful of bile.

Marc pushes himself to his feet, smacking the side of his helmet to clear his head. He finally manages to shake free the disorientation and looks around. He is standing on a flat, blue-white landscape of ice. In the sky, there is a distant, dim orange orb. The system's larger star. Little eddies of frost and wind swirl and roll all around him. Even with the armor's insulating layers, a gnawing cold prods at his skin and threatens to sink deeper.

Two things become instantly apparent to the Spartan. The first is the absence of John and the Forerunner. He checks his comms. "Bedragare to Sierra A Two Two Two. Acknowledge?" His comms are silent. "John, come in. Heritage? Anyone, respond."

While still experimenting with the comms, Marc starts walking toward the second item of interest: a giant gray spire jutting from the glacier. It stretches several kilometers into the atmosphere, and depending on the glacier, could be much taller, buried under the ice. With no other apparent landmark and a growing chill, it's the most logical place to go.

Twenty minutes later, he finally catches a signal. "Bedragare to John. Come in John." A faint voice responds. "This is John. Marc, can you hear me?" Marc sighs, and the knot in his stomach finally loosens. "Finally. Yes, I can hear you, barely. What's your situation?"

"Still shaking off the teleportation sickness. I'm somewhere with a lot of ice, and not much else." Marc glances around. "Sounds familiar. Where's Heritage?" "I managed to contact him a few minutes ago. He said he dropped us off near our first objectives, but the Cryptum's range was limited. He placed us as close to them as he could, but we'll have to find our way from there."

Marc sighs again, and this time annoyance colors his tone. "A boatload of help he is." As he says this, he finally reaches the base of the spire. "Just as well, I think I found what I'm looking for." "Good. I'll...keep this chann..." Marc taps his radio. "Repeat that last thing, my radio's bugging out." "Marc? I can't...peat what you said." Marc mutters a curse. "Something's blocking our comms. Radio silence until one of us figures out what it is." John's response is a mess of static. Marc sighs a third time and looks to the spire.

The spire seems smooth and featureless, but as Bedragare closes the final meters to it, irregularities become apparent. There are dark lines which extend up the length of the spire and out of sight. They occasionally veer off at odd angles, intersect, and in some cases, stop abruptly. He reaches the base. "Right. How to open you?" He starts walking around the base, looking for any clue or sign of entry.

Ten minutes and three laps around the base later, and nothing becomes apparent. Marc is growing irritated, mostly from cold and a growing sense that his time is being wasted. He starts to consider a less subtle approach when his motion tracker blips. He turns in the direction of the blip. Out on the ice, toward where he first appeared, there are numerous flashes of light. Faint roars accompany them. Knights. He unconsciously reaches for his back, and the scattershot clipped there.

His hand grasps at nothing.

Marc snatches at air again, then realizes his mistake. The scattershot must have been knocked off his back in the landing. He makes a quiet promise to find his old drill sergeant and let him kick his ass. He turns back to the spire. He figures he has less than two minutes before the Knights find him. As if to illustrate the point, the blips all start moving toward him. The roars grow louder, and Crawler screeches accompany him. Marc knows the Crawlers are likely charging ahead of the Knights, like hounds before the hunters. He continues his search, forcing down a growing anxiety. Finally he yells. "Open, Goddamn it!" Marc pulls back and punches the gray metal with his left fist.

The noise reverberates like a gong, but doesn't fade. Rather, it grows louder and louder. The ice around the spire splits, and so do the black lines crisscrossing the structure's surface. White light breaks through, and the great sections of metal in between the lines float outward, widening and opening. Marc sighs explosively. "Cutting it pretty damn close." He slips in through one of the splits, not bothering to wait. And just in time: a bolt of hardlight scorches the metal beside him. The ancillas become visible against the frozen glare, hauling toward the spire and firing madly.

Marc squeezes into the center of the spire. He is standing on a transparent hexagonal platform. It floats above a dark shaft that stretches out of view below him. A panel of yellow hardlight floats to his left. He quickly moves toward it and starts jabbing his fingers at the glyphs scrolling across the surface. More hardlight sears past him and against his shields. A scream brings his attention back to the Prometheans. The Crawlers are scratching their way through the openings. And the openings are still growing wider, allowing the Crawlers further maneuverability. "Damn." He renews his pace.

One of the hyena like constructs finally squeezes through and lunges at him. He whirls, backhanding it across its insectoid face. This veers it to the side, and it tumbles past him. Its metal claws rake against the lip of the platform, throwing sparks. It is a useless gesture, and the Crawler tumbles off the platform and into the void below. "Screw this," he mutters. Once again, his fist goes through the terminal in a shower of sparks. The walls halt a moment, then start to close again. The Crawlers scream as they are crushed. The platform jerks, then descends rapidly.

Marc has a moment of vertigo, and rests against the terminal. The chute narrows a bit, closing the gap between the platform and the walls speeding past. He closes his eyes a moment. Because of this, he doesn't see the red blip on his radar, or the blue flash as something appears behind him. He doesn't hear the Knight rush him.

But he is Marc Bedragare. A long time veteran of nearly a hundred campaigns. A hardened ODST, then a black ops SPARTAN-IV. He didn't survive what he did for as long as he did without nurturing and honing an amazing and uncanny survival instinct. Because of this, he knows instantly of the danger, and is ready for it.

He drops to a knee at the last moment. The air sings as a hardlight blade scorches its way through where his neck was less than a second earlier. Without turning, he hears the metal sound of the Knight's foot as it steps to rebalance itself, and he gauges the Knight' s position. Using the terminal as a brace, he mule kicks as hard as he can. He hits the Knight in its knee, hobbling it and forcing it to drop to its hurt knee. Marc turns, balling his fist and aiming just right. He viciously uppercuts the Knight in its chin. The blow lifts the construct off its feet and tosses it to the far side of the platform.

Marc rises to his feet as the Knight does the same. He flicks his wrist, and his knife pops out of the bracer and into his hand. The Knight roars and waves its sword at him in a challenge. He returns the gesture, flicking the matte black blade. "Come and get me."

* * *

In a dull, gray haze, Marc sees a white light hovering over him. It speaks in a tinny, deep and somewhat sad voice.

 _"Reclaimer... what has been done to you?"_

* * *

Marc comes to in complete darkness. Every part of him hurts, and he tastes blood on his lips. Blue sparks catch his attention. He activates his VISR. Little tan lines outline everything and make it clearer.

He is at the bottom of the shaft. The lift lies in shattered panes all around him. Twisted metal laces through it and smoke hangs in the air. The end of the ride was not gentle, it seems. The lift must have lost power and plummeted right after...

Marc tries to remember exactly what happened. The Knight ambushed him. It happened very quickly, he remembers. The Knight rushed him in a zigzag motion. He slammed against the wall, throwing sparks as his shield ground against the speeding wall. He leaned to the right. The sword slashed past the left of his head. A scorching red line traced up into the dark. He hooked the Knight's sword arm. It roared, he headbutted it. His knife hand was caught. The Knight tried to crush him against the wall. He let the knife go. His free hand caught it. An orange skull filled his vision. He buried the knife in between the eye sockets.

He vaguely remembers what happened next. Marc pushed the burning machine away, letting the knife go. He shakily stepped over the flickering data purge. He took another step. He managed a third, and... his skull exploded. He fell over, twitching, writhing and choking as an invisible vise took hold and squeezed. He felt a sudden sensation of weightlessness, and blacked out.

Marc's VISR highlights something buried in the debris. He starts digging it out while trying to figure out what exactly happened to him. He had had a seizure, obviously. But he had never had one before. And while he had read up on them - there was always the danger of seizures in the first three weeks after augmentations - he was certain no augment seizures hurt _that bad_. It was worse than anything he had felt before. The augmentations, falling from low orbit, anything. It was sudden, unexpected, inexplicable and worst of all: crippling. Marc had no way of treating it, and no way of knowing if it would happen again.

 _All the more reason to get this done fast_ , he thinks as he finally frees the object: the Knight's lightrifle. It is scratched and dented, but serviceable. He clips it to his back. The elevator door is cracked open slightly. The blast had damaged it, bent it slightly inward. _Thank God for GEN2_. He approaches it and kicks it the rest of the way open. Beyond it is a short hallway ending in a bend. He follows it, and finds another tunnel with another bend. And another. And another.

Eventually, the labyrinthine tunnel ends quite suddenly. It dumps him out into a very, very large room. The ceiling extends over seven hundred meters above. Marc wonders how much of the elevator ride was controlled and how much was falling. He runs through several equations - thickness of the Halo, speed of the elevator, how far above the surface he was when the elevator started moving - and decides that around two thirds of his descent was gravity-based. _Thank God for GEN2_.

The far wall lies over a kilometer away. And on either side of him, the room extends forever, even curving upwards slightly. He'd be willing to bet that the room extends the entire length of the Halo.

Halfway up the room, suspended in the middle and likewise extending forever, is a narrow beam of yellow-green light. At regular intervals, the beam threads through the center of great circles of hardlight and floating metal.

On the whole, the spectacle is impressive, intimidating and entirely impossible to make sense of. Marc has no clue where to go, what to expect and which buttons to press. Flustered, he opens his comms.

He gets a ping almost immediately. "...Twenty two to Bedragare. Marc, come in." Marc presses his chin to the mic. "Marc, here. Go ahead, John." The normally stoic Spartan's voice betrays relief. "Finally. Your vitals went nuts about an hour ago, then nothing. Been trying to raise you ever since." Marc pauses, then continues. "I had a date with gravity, but I'm alright. Give me a sitrep." John doesn't need to know about Marc's episode, or his current predicament. He has enough to worry about.

"Heritage has finished his objective, and is heading to the second. I'm just about to hit mine. What about you?" Marc glances back up at the trickle of energy, and the slight curvature of the insanely large room. "Almost done. Keep me posted."

"Will do." The comms pop as John closes the channel momentarily. Marc picks a direction and starts walking. The going is slow, as the floor is a maze of ramps, platforms, buildings, chutes and even the occasional man cannon. Marc makes a mental note to talk to the Forge team back on the Orion and model a war games map after it all.

Two things happen then, quite suddenly. The first is that a waypoint appears on his HUD without warning, pointing to one of the hardlight circles the beam is flowing through. The second thing is a Phaeton that moves out from behind a tower and opens fire at him.

Agility and the fortune of seeing the Phaeton first saves his life. He leaps and clambers over a short wall near him. The cover is short lived, as the VTOL appears above him in a flash. Marc wastes no time standing on ceremony, and runs like the devil himself was after him. He leaps, rolls, slides, dives, jets, climbs, sprints and generally does everything in his power to get the hell away from the gunship. It's an impressive display of coordination especially with a hail of directed energy and missiles raining down around him.

But the Phaeton stubbornly refuses to let him go. It blinks into existence above, beside and in front if him, takes pot shots at him and repeats endlessly. The battered Spartan is soon exhausted and making mistakes. His chances of survival dwindle lower and lower.

Less than three minutes later, Marc is sprinting across a catwalk suspended over a shallow but wide trench. The Phaeton dogs him still, and Marc has no cover. It's endgame, one way or another. When the VTOL blinks and appears in front and to the side of him, an idea grips Marc. A brilliant idea. A really stupid idea. And at this point, the only thing that can save him.

He leaps, as hard and as fast and as high as he can, straight at the Phaeton. The ship fires its missile pods, and the orange projectiles streak past him, annihilating the bridge. Marc slams into the nose, scrambling like mad for a handhold. He finds one just before he slides over. The Phaeton spins wildly, trying to shake off the Spartan. He is grasping the ship with one hand, a white knuckled death grip. The Phaeton halts suddenly, trying to use inertia to dislodge him.

Instead, Marc swings around and latches firmly to the side of the cockpit. He pries it open, looking directly into the orange glowing eyes of the pilot. The Promethean soldier spits curses at him and swipes at him. "Get out."

The soldier plummets into the gorge. Marc settles in, trying to remember the one simulation he ran two years ago. The Phaeton shakily starts heading to the waypoint.

* * *

A Knight patrols the lip of the platform, three hundred and fifty meters above the floor. One of the scout ships sent out earlier is returning. But something is amiss. The ship lists on its port side, and is coming in fast. Too fast. And it is aiming for the Knight.

The construct screams once before the VTOL slams into it at ninety MPH. It screeches and tumbles across the platform and throws the pilot clear. Marc tumbles alongside it a ways, yelling. He comes to a stop eventually, his shields crackling. The Phaeton doesn't, and tumbles of the far side of the platform.

Something skitters to a stop near Marc. He pushes himself to his feet and limps over to it. It's an armor ability. Marc wonders at the convenience. He picks it up, brushes it a bit and clips it to his back. His suit instantly interfaces with it, and a relevant icon appears on his HUD. A hardlight shield. He smiles appreciatively.

A roar brings his attention to the rest of the scene. A cadre of Prometheans, drawn by the clamor, now rushes onto the platform at him. But this time, there are no ambushes. No lack of situational awareness. Marc is ready, eager, and more than slightly annoyed. He draws his lightrifle and charges.

* * *

A Knight falls over, vaporizing, as Marc steps over it. There are no more enemies in sight. Marc looks back at the trail of destruction he blazed. Bent metal, scorches, orange ichor and more litter the whole length of the battlefield. He ejects the spent energy cartridge, inserts a fresh one and approaches the terminal. This one isn't the complex blue orbs Marc has been encountering. Just a big, simple, yellow-glowing button. He presses it, glad for the reprieve.

The energy beam flickers, dims a moment, then explodes with activity, blinding the Spartan. He blinks away spots in his vision and looks again. The trickle has become a bright river of yellow and green that fills the entirety of the band. He opens the comms. "I got the grid online. Copy?"

"Copy," John replies. "I got the centripetal generators working again. You're sure the grid works?" Marc glances back at the console. He realizes that there's just the button. No way to enter coordinates, monitor traffic, nothing. "One way to find out. Have Scotty beam us to our next objectives." There's a pause. "Scotty?" Marc sighs. "Heritage. Have the Forerunner teleport us."

John takes a moment to reply yet again. His tone is hesitant when he does. "Funny thing: Heritage has gone dark."

"'Dark'? Dark how? Dark where?" Marc's headache returns, for entirely different reasons. "'Dark' as in he hasn't checked in the last three times I hailed him. As for where... I'm not sure. Probably near his first objective." Marc grunts. His headache isn't helping him think. "I'll find out a way to get to him. I suggest you find your way to to your next objective. Hopefully, the old bastard nodded off or-"

Marc's train of thought is derailed when a host of blue dots blink into existence behind him. White flashes tease the edge of his vision. He wheels around, rifle at the ready. And all he sees are Sentinels. Dozens. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. A swarm of triangular drones all stare at him, their weapon-crested undercarriages trained on him. Marc stands utterly still. They can see him, they are locked. He'd be turned into a wisp of vapor before he pulled the trigger. With nowhere to run and no way to fight, Bedragare stands completely still for want of anything to do.

But the Sentinels hold their fire. A white orb weaves its way through the throng. Marc lowers his weapon as he realizes what is happening. The white ball exits the mass of drones and settles before Marc Bedragare. The glow lessens, and the Monitor reveals itself. It speaks with the same deep, tinny voice Marc heard in the dark.

 _"Greetings, Reclaimer. I am the Monitor of Installation 02. I am 007 Iniquitous Dominion. We have much to discuss."_

(Written by Marc Bedragare. Edited and proofread by John-A222)


	4. Chapter 4

**Halo: Isolation**  
 **Chapter Four**

John-A222 appears suspended in the air for barely a moment before dropping to the cold metal floor. He lands on his front with a crash. He rolls onto his back and shifts uncomfortably. His armor, is smoking and scorched. It is clearly damaged but still functional. The Spartan finally pushes himself up and looks around... He is unarmed.

John scans his surroundings. He is nearly surrounded by ice, save for patches of exposed metal. He takes a few uneasy steps forward, stretching and trying to shake off disorientation. There is a knot in his stomach, but John ignores it. The Spartan walks up to a large wall of seemingly solid ice and knocks on it just as his comms crackle. "This is A222," he says into the silence. The crackling stops and he continues to look around. _Now, where do I need to go?_

He is in a large room, darkened by the ice that covers any Forerunner lighting. Even with the thick coating of ice, the space within is substantial. To the Spartan's left are a pair of hallway entrances in the near darkness. Both are consumed by ice. To his right is an apparent bend with dim light radiating from around the corner. A222 straightens and walks toward the light... His only path.

Rounding the corner is silent. There is no sound other than the Spartan crushing through the weak layers of ice that coat the floor. He stops at a large opening, resembling something of a hangar door leading outside. John moves a little faster out into the environment. He looks up at the system's star. It is just brilliant enough to make snow blinding and ice filled with illusions. The reflections caused by the local planes of ice are likewise disorienting. He continues out further until the "hangar entrance" is some distance behind him.

The Commander faces a nearly flat landscape. Hills of snow and frost are the only discernable features. John's second time on a Halo, this is _different_. His comms pick up, remarkably instant. A voice greets him, none other than the Forerunner, Heritage of Broken World. _"Reclaimer, I apologize for the abruptness of your journey, but time is of the essence."_ John straightens, "Where am I?" The sophisticated voice returns, sounding stronger than John's own. _"Each of you has been deposited near your first objective. Yours is evident but... quite hazardous. I would have put you closer would my abilities have allowed."_ The Spartan stares at the featureless horizon for a few moments before finally turning around, stunned by his new view. The hangar entrance sits carved into the base of a small mountain. The slopes are reasonably steep, leading to a clearly artificial structure integrated into the upper half. John wasn't prepared for a climb. The Forerunner continues, _"There is a terminal in the elevated structure nearby. Reactivation of the ring's centripetal generators is crucial, Human."_ The Commander nods to himself. "Understood." The signal is terminated.

By now, he has regained most of his activity. His augmented body has overcome the explosion stun and the effects of teleportation. He begins to run back towards the incline. His comms crackle again, this time producing a nearly inaudible tone as a sign of connection. "-edragare to John. Come in John..." a distant voice says. "This is John. Marc, can you hear me?" There is a noticeable sigh of relief from the other side. "Finally. Yes, I can hear you, barely. What's your situation?"

"Still shaking off the teleportation sickness. I'm somewhere with a lot of ice, and not much else." He looks up at the mountain, studying it. "Sounds familiar. Where's Heritage?" Bedragare asks. "I managed to contact him a few minutes ago. He said he dropped us off near our first objectives, but the Cryptum's range was limited. He placed us as close to them as he could, but we'll have to find our way from there." Marc sighs again. "A boatload of help he is." There is a brief pause. John continues running, listening for hints of Marc's activity. Bedragare speaks again. "Just as well, I think I found what I'm looking for." The SPARTAN-III starts up the base of the mountain. "Good. I'll keep this channel open. We'll need to stay in touch." John's comms crackle and he stops, listening. "Repeat... last thing... radio... out..." He quickly attempts to respond. "Marc? I can't hear you. Repeat what you said." There is a moment of silence before Marc speaks again, just as choppy. "Something... blocking our comm... Radio silence until... figures out what..." The Commander sighs, barely discerning the message. He comms back, "Solid copy. A222 out."

Twenty minutes pass before John reaches a vertical wall of ice covered rock. He has made decent progress but has done nothing more than run up an incline until now. John takes a moment to rest and checks his systems. He checks for any sort of signal and manages to come up with Marc's vital signatures. They are unstable. _What the... Marc!_ John watches closely as the signs scramble and fade. Nothing.

A222 shakes away his thoughts and focuses on his objective. He looks up the cliff and grabs onto a small edge. Pulling himself up and finding a foothold, he begins to climb. _What I wouldn't give for an airlift right now._ He hauls himself up cautiously.

He pauses for a moment at thirty feet to look over his shoulder at the flat landscape. It is a majestic silver and white. The star light dances on the reflective surfaces. John reaches up for another hold but his hand slips. He digs his feet into the footing and grips the ledge firmly. Shaking his head, he reaches up and finds a better grip.

Half an hour passes. John now walks on a narrow ledge. He has made little progress long term. He stands at an elevation of about one hundred feet. The Commander carefully maneuvers around rocky edges. He crouches and looks out again at the surrounding land. John takes a moment to try and reach Marc. Still nothing. He stands at the sound of a high pitched hum. He straddles the rock wall and makes his way to a small indent in the side of the mountain. The Spartan sits in wait as the hum grows louder and louder. John remembers his AV-CAM unit. _Come on, come on..._ It is still functional, but barely. The Spartan slowly fades into the shadows, watching. The camouflage flickers frequently.

There is a slight gleam as a fairly large Sentinel approaches the ledge. It looks around and scans. Taking note of his current progress, John makes a decision. It is a risk, yes, but an unparalleled opportunity. He deactivates his camouflage and leaps into a sprint. Diving forward, the Spartan grabs onto the Sentinel. The construct panics and quickly lifts up. It moves out from the ledge and tries to spin back and forth. A222's grip is unrelenting. The Commander looks off to the side just as a formation of three Sentinels round the side of the mountain. "Damn..."

John's Sentinel begins to dart forward, heading to the mountain peak. The formation moves behind and opens fire. Yellow and blue beams pierce past both the Spartan and the Sentinel. A222 swings to the side to avoid a beam and looks at the growing structure ahead. The frigid air rushes past his helmet. _Here's my stop._ Just as the Sentinel reaches the structure, it is hit by one of its fellows and begins to shake violently. The flaming mass begins to jet toward a small platform. John slips but grabs onto the bottom of the damaged Sentinel at last minute. He is running out of options. With no more than fifteen feet to spare, the Commander looks up and pulls off the Sentinel's weapon. He grips it as he falls, the flaming construct continues forward.

The Spartan lands and rolls into a crouch on the platform, still clutching the sentinel beam. The Sentinel itself crashes into the ground a few feet ahead. A222 quickly spins and points the sentinel beam at the incoming hostiles, but the Sentinels stop. They move over and scan the wreckage of their counterpart. After a few moments, they look the Spartan over and depart.

John cradles the sentinel beam and studies his surroundings. At this point, he is thankful for reaching his destination... and surviving. A short search yields an automated entryway. The Commander proceeds into the hallway cautiously. His comms activate and a near flawless signal ensues. It is the Forerunner. _"Reclaimer, it is Heritage. My objective is complete. How do you fare?"_ John responds, "I am getting close. Won't be long assuming there is no resistance." Heritage responds rather shortly. _"Do not count on it, Human. Those who have done these foul works remain. I will contact you again shortly."_ The signal ends. Once John is well into the long hallway, he stops. "A Two Twenty Two to Bedragare. Marc, come in." He waits. Shortly thereafter, there is a response. "Marc, here. Go ahead, John."

"Finally. Your vitals went nuts about an hour ago, then nothing. Been trying to raise you ever since." Marc pauses, then continues. "I had a date with gravity, but I'm alright. Give me a sitrep." The Commander replies confidently. "Heritage has finished his objective, and is heading to the second. I'm just about to hit mine. What about you?" There is another brief pause. "Almost done. Keep me posted." John nods to himself. "Will do." He closes the channel momentarily and moves on. The hallway turns left into a moderately-sized room filled with displays and noteworthy architecture. John stops and raises his sentinel beam as he hears an ominous but distant shriek.

He glances at his motion tracker... Nothing. He reaches a doorway at the end of the room and opens it to see a brilliant, blue hardlight bridge. It reaches across a seemingly infinite chasm. John barely has time to check his motion tracker. The first Promethean Crawler is on him. The Spartan beats it back with the bulk of the sentinel beam and fries it with a pulse.

Several more Crawlers charge across the bridge. John fires a blue beam at the beasts, obliterating one. A second gets close but is subsequently kicked off of the hardlight bridge. All hostiles neutralized, John looks down at the steaming sentinel beam. Expired, it is thrown to the side. The Spartan runs across the bridge. The other side is a declining hallway. It spirals downward until it reaches a small room.

What first appears to be a room is a shaft. John walks in. The platform he stands on has a large pillar of light running through the center and a small terminal on one side. This is familiar to him. The Spartan activates the terminal and the elevator platform descends, deeper into the mountain. The descent smooths to a stop and A222 charges down a short hallway. He emerges in a massive room. A dark rift runs through the floor at the rooms center, bridged in several locations. Crossing, though, is the least of John's worries.

Before him stands a Promethean Knight with its back conveniently turned. Ahead of it are at least three other Knights and a cluster of Crawlers. John knows he must move quickly. He draws his combat knife and leaps onto the back of the unsuspecting Knight just as two of the others notice the Spartan and roar. It is too late. The knife's blade is jammed into the Promethean's face. The mechanical beast vibrates and slowly disintegrates into fluttering specks of light. A222 lifts the dropped binary rifle. "Who's next?"

All of the Promethean roar in unison. Two of the Knights are instantly next to him. John ducks under a blade swing and immediately fires into the construct's chest. It stumbles back and roars. The Spartan swings his rifle at the other Promethean, turning again to the first. He fires rapidly until the monster disintegrates with an echoing shriek.

The second Knight swings, but the Commander spins to the side. He grabs hold of the Knight's arm and forces its blade up into its own collar. With the arm immobilized, the Promethean splits its face and howls with its orange skull exposed. Unphased, the Spartan brings up his rifle and ends the Knight. John sprints to cover behind a small barrier. He turns and peers over at the remaining hostiles. Lining up his binary rifle, he fires. Several shots bring another Knight and a Crawler down. John turns to reload, but instead stares into the glowing face of the last Knight.

The Promethean picks the Spartan up and flings him to the side. After impact, John gets to his feet and draws his knife once more. He rushes the Knight as it teleports forward. The monster swings its blade as A222 slides through its legs. The Spartan spins and mounts the Promethean. Just before he can drive his knife in, the Knight reaches back with its blade arm, in nearly severing John's arm. The Commander swings over the Knight's shoulder and brings his knife down into the beast's head. It fades, just like the rest.

Using a fallen light rifle, John dispatches the remaining Crawlers and proceeds across one of the bridges. After navigating several hallways and tunnels, he finally reaches a fairly elaborate room lit only by displays. Several terminals are placed throughout the dark room, giving off a bluish glow.

 _"HUMAN DETECTED! ENGAGE!"_ A pair of Promethean Soldiers assault him immediately. John opens fire, hitting one as they retreat into the darkness. The Spartan keeps his rifle raised, scanning the shadows. He watches for any sign of movement. Several shots of hardlight just miss him from a nearby pillar. A222 charges and fires unceasingly at the Soldier. It lurches and then steps back, disappearing into particles of light in the typical Promethean fashion. _One left..._

John expects it. He turns to find the remaining Soldier opening fire from behind him. It runs behind a line of pillars. A222 keeps pace on the other side of the columns. They fire at each other at every opening. The Spartan's shots are more accurate. The Soldier disappears behind a column, only fluttering light in its wake.

The Commander sets his weapon aside and looks at the terminals. He opens comms and tries to reach Heritage but the Promethean is unresponsive. No signal is detected. John walks around and studies the dashboards. A222 tries to hail Heritage again and meets the same results. He notices as central installation, different from the rest. Its sophistication betrays its significance. The Spartan walks over and raises his hand. Reluctant at first, John presses his palm to the panel and the symbols lining the terminal light up.

He looks around. Nothing. Not even a sign of change. Suddenly, the room is lit to a greater extent than before. John turns around to see a massive holoprojection of the halo. He watches as the representation of the ring spins slowly. Focusing the Spartan notices the significant shift in gravity and nods in approval. "Objective complete." John looks around and tries to reach Heritage once more... Only silence.

He retrieves his rifle and exits the room. Returning down the halls, John stops as his comms activate. It is Bedragare's voice. "I got the grid online. Copy?" John is quick to reply. "Copy. I got the centripetal generators working again. You're sure the grid works?" There is a brief pause before Marc responds, "One way to find out. Have Scotty beam us to our next objectives." John is silent, suspecting a mistake. "Scotty?" Marc sighs. "Heritage. Have the Forerunner teleport us."

The Commander knows the issue. "Funny thing... Heritage has gone dark." Marc sounds rather panicked. "'Dark'? Dark how? Dark where?" John responds calmly. "'Dark' as in he hasn't checked in the last three times I hailed him. As for where... I'm not sure. Probably near his first objective." Marc grunts. "I'll find out a way to get to him. I suggest you find your way to to your next objective. Hopefully, the old bastard nodded off or-" Marc trails off. John sits, waiting for him to continue.

He continues forward, returning to the hardlight bridge. A222 hears distorted sounds over the signal. He listens carefully as a crisp, smooth electronic voice is faintly heard instead of Marc. The Spartan stops, looking up only when he hears a loud hum. John raises his rifle and stands motionless as clusters of Sentinels rise up from below the bridge, their electronic eyes trained on him. The Commander stares at the Sentinels, considering his next move as Marc finally responds. "Change of plans. I may have just found a solution to our problems."

Still motionless, John comms, "I'm in a bit of situation. Sentinels..." Marc cuts him off. "About that... you're going to want to see this."

(Written by John-A222. Edited and proofread by Marc Bedragare)


	5. Chapter 5

**Halo: Isolation**  
 **Chapter 5**

"About that... You're going to want to see this."

Waves of golden light overtake John-A222. He watches as his arms and body are consumed. In the blink of an eye, he is in a new setting. Before him stands Marc, hundreds of Sentinels, and a glowing white orb... A Forerunner Monitor.

The Spartan places his light rifle on his back and steps forward, approaching Marc. The army of Sentinels adjusts slightly, watching the new arrival. John looks around at the mob, the glowing white and blue lights glimmering on his cracked visor. "Well, this is..." Marc cuts him off. "Scary as all Hell, but it could be a game-changer." A222 continues forward, nodding slowly. "Maybe if we knew the rules of this _game_." The Monitor glides forward to look the new Spartan over. _"Ah another Reclaimer. How fortunate! Greetings, Reclaimer. I am 007 Iniquitous Dominion, and I can assure you this is no game."_

The two Spartans are bathed in the bright white glow as Iniquitous Dominion rambles. _"I have been so eager to speak with you since your arrival. I only wish it could have been done sooner, for he has already done so much. I have been struggling to keep up with the damage he has caused."_ John straightens and glances at Marc before asking, "He?" The Monitor darts closer in a burst of light. _"Certainly, Reclaimer. The Promethean Warrior that has plagued this installation! Surely you know of his atrocities."_ John and Marc immediately look at each other... Heritage.

"You mean the Forerunner has gone rogue?" John asks. Iniquitous Dominion hovers silent for a moment. _"Forerunner? Whatever do you mean, Reclaimer? I can assure you that this Promethean is not biological in nature. I am referring to the hostile construct that roams this ring. I have spent the last twenty seven hours combating this infestation of Prometheans... Absolutely dreadful."_ The Spartans look at each other again. Heritage never told them of such a presence.

Marc, sounding slightly annoyed, inquires "And where might the Forerunner, Heritage Of Broken World, be?" The Monitor glows a little more vibrantly. _"One of the creators? Here?"_ He pauses, but resumes in his serious tone. _"Unfortunately, I do not know of his location. But I can assure you, biological Promethean Warriors are most elite. Their battle skins are far superior to your own and..."_

John-A222 holds up a hand, silencing Iniquitous Dominion, and speaks. "This Promethean... What more do you know about it?" Iniquitous looks the Spartan over further, seeming to take note of his damaged armor. _"Very little, I'm afraid. It seems to have a configuration I am unfamiliar with. The Promethean... You must understand, I was dormant for millennia. The ice buildup is because of my negligence. When you Reclaimers engaged the Flood, security protocols were enacted. But my activation was delayed due to ice damage. By the time I was operational, the engagement was over, the ring had been activated, and we had entered slipspace. I do not approve of such hasty actions, I must note. Activation should have been postponed until I could do a full systems check. And then there is the issue with power drainage, collateral damage..."_

John shakes his head and continues. "Do you at least know the origin of all these Prometheans?" Marc adds, "Their very existence isn't making things easier." Iniquitous Dominion responds confidently. _"Ah for that you will need to travel to the Cartographer, Reclaimers. It will be a most beneficial venture as you can use the Silent Cartographer to find what you seek. As I was saying, by the time I awoke, the Promethean and his forces were spreading across the ring, sabotaging systems and destroying Sentinels with impunity, forcing me to devote myself to repairs. Your respective interventions at the teleportation grid and centrifuge generator provided the gap in my duties necessary for this meeting... But yes... On to the Cartographer. Time is of the essence."_

John and Marc nod to each other and look up to the Monitor. "Ready?" Marc asks. John pulls the light rifle from his back and nods. "Affirmative." The pair is overtaken by golden waves of light, leaving nothing in their place.

They emerge in the massive chamber of the Cartographer with their weapons raised. In its center is a large, holographic representation of the Halo ring itself. Iniquitous appears behind them. "Simple enough," Marc concludes as the Spartans lower their arms. The Monitor guides them forward towards a terminal. The silence breaks as flashes of light erupt around the edges of the room, depositing Promethean Soldiers and Knights in their places.

Marc takes a quick look around. "Contacts!" John calls out, "It's an ambush! Get to cover!" Bursts of hardlight pierce through the air as the Spartans dive behind terminals. John leans around and fires, eliminating a Soldier as Marc tosses a grenade into a cluster of hostiles. Iniquitous Dominion darts around overhead scolding. _"You mongrels! How dare you interfere with my installation! I will have you erased!"_ A mass of Sentinels rise up from the chasm below the holoprojection, weapons glowing. The chamber erupts into a storm of hardlight and energy beams.

There is a flash as a Soldier teleports onto the terminal that John hides behind. The Spartan leaps up, tackling the Promethean. Marc glances over but is subsequently engaged by his own opponents. A Knight Strategos rushes Marc with a complement of Soldiers. Bedragare quickly takes down two of the Prometheans, but is knocked to the ground by the Knight. John drives his knife into the Soldier's head and it flutters apart. After picking up its scattershot, the SPARTAN-III charges towards Marc and knocks the Knight back. As the Knight backs away, John fires his scattershot and turns to the SPARTAN-IV, now charging. As Marc dashes by, John lifts him and throws him toward the Knight. Bedragare activates his thrusters while in the air and rams into the Knight. The Promethean shrieks as it shakes and flutters apart in specks of light. Marc lands in a crouch and nods back at A222.

John returns the signal but turns as a Knight screeches behind him. He spins, unloading what is left of his scattershot. Shoving a pulse grenade into the Knight's chest, John dives back to avoid the blast. A Soldier teleports to Marc in bursts. As it stands before him, Marc activates his thrusters and brings his foot across the Soldier's face. The Promethean stumbles and roars until Marc fires his scattershot at its head.

Both of the Spartans look back towards the entrance as a large flash of light engulfs the chamber. After it subsides, a towering Promethean stands firm at eleven feet. All other Promethean forces stand down as the new arrival turns to speak. Its voice booms, echoing with a seemingly robotic might. _"I am Harkens To Iron, servant of the Forerunners. Your tampering with this ring is an affront to my makers... And you will be purged."_

Iniquitous Dominion darts forward. _"A servant... How dare you! You are nothing more than a study. You have no authority here and I demand..."_ The larger Promethean growls and raises his hand. _"That is enough from you, Monitor."_ A vibrant red beam jets out from the open palm of Harkens To Iron and Iniquitous Dominion falls disabled. The firefight picks up again, lighting up the chamber. John and Marc both run for the large Promethean. Bedragare bursts through a disintegrating Soldier. A222 leaps away from a crashing Sentinel. They finally stand mere meters from Harkens to Iron, bringing their weapons up.

Harkens To Iron is mechanical, like the others, with red light radiating from behind the crevasses in his face. His limbs are lean and sleek, with reverse-jointed legs. The Promethean peers down at the Spartans with luminescent eyes. He speaks through four metal mandibles on his lower face. _"Your companion, Heritage Of Broken World, is mine, Humans."_ John-A222 remains motionless, his rifle trained on the new enemy. Marc retorts, "Some servant to the Forerunners..." Harkens To Iron thrusts his palms forward, knocking both the Spartans back with a pulse. _"Heritage is treasonous for dealing with your kind. He exists in defiance of the Didact's will."_

John mutters, "Let's defy him further." With that, the Spartans rush forward. Harkens To Iron unleashes another pulse, but Marc jets through it with his thrusters. John is slowed slightly, bracing with strength. The pair opens fire, hitting the Promethean with everything. Harkens To Iron lifts Marc up with a constraint field, only dropping him after A222 charges. The Promethean fires a red beam at John but the Spartan rolls away. Marc activates his thrusters and kicks Harkens To Iron in the chest. The large Promethean stumbles, but swings his arm, sending Marc flying back. John rushes forward and slides, firing his weapon at the monster's leg. The Promethean roars and turns to crush A222 with his foot. John rolls away just as Marc uses his thrusters to boost up above the fight. He thrusts down, slamming the Promethean in the head.

Harkens To Iron roars and picks Marc up. The Spartan is thrown, only to be slowed by the activation of his thrusters. While the Promethean is distracted, John jumps onto his back. The Commander jams a pulse grenade into the Promethean's shoulder and flips back to the ground. The explosion blasts off small pieces from the warrior. Harkens To Iron roars again in rage. He brings his metal foot down to the floor, knocking the Spartans back with a shockwave. The Promethean lifts his palms and fires red beams at the Spartans. Marc yells in rage as he is hit. John is thrown back farther with a grunt. Their shields drop in an instant.

Harkens To Iron ceases and walks towards the downed Spartans. He watches as their shields shimmer. _"Humanity is but a curse... and now you will find your place."_ As he raises his hands to finish, the metal orb of 1554 Iniquitous Dominion glows to life. The Monitor rushes up and fires a soft, pale beam at the large Promethean. _"Hurry, Reclaimers! I cannot restrain him for long."_

The Spartans push themselves up and run through the chaos to the Silent Cartographer terminal. They hurriedly manipulate Forerunner symbols and finally focus in on a portion of the ring. Marc grabs the coordinates and they run for the exit. After the Spartans are long gone, the battle dies down as Sentinels begin to leave the structure. Iniquitous Dominion moves closer to the captive Harkens To Iron. _"Disgraceful."_ The Monitor releases his captive and in a flash of light, vanishes.

The roar of Harkens To Iron echoes throughout the Cartographer.

The Spartans exit the Cartographer, a temple-like complex jutting from a glacier. The frozen wastes extend before them. John looks at Marc. "What's the objective?" Marc taps his tacpad, forwarding the coordinates to John. "Our target is a Dreadnought-class warship... one of those big blade-shaped kinds. It's docked three thousand clicks downspin." John chuckles dryly. "Not exactly strolling distance."

Marc taps his comms. "Dom, we need a lift to the Promethean's ship." The comms are dead silent. John tries this time. Again, no response. Marc groans. "You can't trust old tech. Ideas?" John shrugs. "Unless we are will to risk a run back inside..." Marc glances at him. "Any _good_ ideas?"

Before John can reply, orange slipspace portals appear around them. The Spartans go back to back as a host of Soldiers, Crawlers, and a trio of Knights appear on all sides, screaming their hate and blocking retreat. John tries one last time. "Dominion! Get us out of here, now!" Marc glances over his shoulder. "So our newfound friend is a no show. Any last words?" John remains alert. "We'll get out of here. Be ready." Marc turns and faces his side of the host of armigers. "You're a terrible liar. But I like the sentiment."

The Prometheans all hold fire, awaiting orders. John's comms pop. _"Apologies for the delay, Reclaimer! One moment."_ A roar echoes out of the Cartographer. Harkens To Iron thunders out from the structure. _"Kill them! Kill them now!"_ The Spartans tense as gold bands rush across them. The army of AIs fire en masse, but it is too late. The Spartans vanish, and Harken bellows his fury across the ice. He sends a pulse across the snow, smoothing over the footprints of his prey.

 **Halo: Isolation will conclude in Chapter 6.**

(Co-written by Marc Bedragare and John-A222)


	6. Chapter 6

**Halo: Isolation**  
 **Chapter Six**

The wastelands are silent, save for the slight howl of the snowy wind. The tall, sleek figure of a Forerunner Dreadnought can be seen in the distance, faded in the sheets of falling snow. The relative peace is disturbed only by a bright flash and pop as two armored figures drop from just over the surface... They are Spartans. Marc Bedragare lands solidly, throwing up a puff of white snow and compacting the top layers of ice beneath him.

John-A222 rolls upon contact with the frozen ground, emerging in a crouch. Both men have nearly mastered teleportation readiness by this time. The SPARTAN-III stands, "Objective in sight." Marc studies the barren landscape. "Let's make haste then." He starts to move forward until a bright flash of light illuminates the area. Weapons drawn, the Spartans spin in unison, ready. They relax as the Monitor, 007 Iniquitous Dominion, surges forth. _"Reclaimers, I certainly hope you are prepared."_ The Spartans exchange glances as Marc mutters, "More support would be nice."

Almost instantly, sections of the ground begin to split and divide. The Spartans brace as the ice beneath them tremors. Formations of Sentinels begin to pour out from the cracks. John watches the stream of new allies and Marc grunts, "Well then..."

The Spartans turn back to face the distant Dreadnought. They stand silent against the snow for a few moments, knowing this could be the end. Neither of them dares to utter the words. The silence is broken as Iniquitous Dominion floats ahead of them. _"Hurry Reclaimers. We haven't the time."_

John places his light rifle on his back and nods to Marc. They dash forward across the snow, leading a herd of Sentinels. The sleek metal structure grows steadily larger. The waypoint on the Spartans' visors counts down the distance. Soon enough, they approach the silver hull of the tall Dreadnought. John pulls his weapon and slides to a stop. He looks over at Marc. "Check for an entrance." The Sentinels hover steadily around them as Iniquitous Dominion interrupts. _"Worry not, Reclaimers. Allow me."_

Inside the Dreadnought, the passages are silent aside from the occasional screech of a Crawler. Soldiers and Knights patrol the vessel, awaiting orders from their commander. An explosion rocks the ship, reverberating down its length. The nearby Promethean forces are taken by surprise as a hole is torn in the hull, opening wide and enveloping the constructs the in a mist as the cold air outside meets the warm air within.

Closest to the breach, a Knight Marshal roars a challenge and is rewarded with a thousand pounds of SPARTAN-III smashing into it with full force. The two crash to the ground, and the Sentinels pour forth above them, catching the Prometheans off-guard and vaporizing many. The local Soldiers attempt to rally opening fire on their attackers.

The Knight Marshal pushes John off, but the Spartan lands on his feet, combat knife in-hand. The Knight rises and roars, displaying its fiery skull. It charges forward, its hardlight blade directed at the Spartan. John turns, partially runs up the passage wall and flips over the attacking construct. The Promethean crashes into the wall but instantly spins to swing at the Commander. John steps out of the way and lunges from the side. He grabs the Knight Marshal's arm, twists it, and swings it into the Promethean's chest. The Knight emits an injured roar and stumbles back with its arm still stuck in its torso. John watches for a moment before running forward and driving his knife into the Knight Marshal's face.

John looks over to Marc as specks of light flutter past. The SPARTAN-IV fires a burst of hardlight clean through the chest of a Soldier. As it fades, Marc spins around another Soldier and brings the bulk of his scattershot down into the back of the Promethean's head. He nods to John just before more bursts of hardlight dart past.

Around them, the Prometheans grow more organized. Sentinels begin to fall at a greater rate than the armigers, and the enemy takes note of the two Humans. John shoulders his weapon and retrieves the dead Marshal's incineration cannon. A Sentinel crashes close to Marc, and its primary beam weapon skitters to a stop near him. He too arms himself with the new weapon. The Spartans rally as a compliment of Soldiers warp toward them. "I miss the peace and quiet," Marc mutters. John hoists the cannon and aims down the sights. "No, you don't." Marc smiles broadly and raises the beam. "No, I don't." They charge the Soldiers.

John slides to a stop and fires the incineration cannon into a group of Soldiers. The explosion launches the armigers in every direction as flurries of light. Marc dashes through the orange blast and tackles a Soldier to the ground. Quickly getting to his feet, the SPARTAN-IV fires his weapon into the downed Promethean's face. A Crawler charges and Marc is able to kick it to the side before firing.

A Soldier rushes John. The Commander braces and brings the incineration cannon down on the armiger. It roars in rage as it is knocked back. John fires, leaving nothing left of the Soldier. The Spartans dispatch the remaining Prometheans and plan their next move. John looks around at the cluster of surviving Sentinels and starts, "Now to Heritage..." Marc nods, "I'm getting a faint signal from just above here. Check for a lift." John nods and proceeds to search the surrounding passages.

Marc peers around. The inside of the Dreadnought is like most Forerunner structures, sleek, advanced, and largely foreign. A few moments later, John's voice pops on comms, "Found a lift shaft. Should get us where we need." Marc nods to himself and replies, "On my way."

The lift leaves the Spartans outside a large metallic door, trimmed with pale blue accents. A Forerunner terminal is offset to the right. John approaches the glowing console and nods to Marc, who points his weapon at the door, bracing. John presses his palm to a blue, luminescent panel and the door shudders before hissing open. The complement of Promethean Soldiers inside just have time to turn before Marc and the Sentinels lay in, dropping several hostiles immediately.

John charges inside the large room to assist. A holding room, to be sure, highly advanced cells line the side walls. Marc slams into as Soldier just before a Soldier Commando fires at him with a splinter turret. A222 is quick to leap onto the Commando's back, drawing the attention from Marc. The SPARTAN-IV brings his foot down on the tackled Soldier's head, flecks of light escaping from under his weight.

Meanwhile, John brings his knife into the side of the Commando's head. It roars in agony but continues to grab for the Spartan. The Commander hurriedly draws his rifle and angles it, firing into the Soldier Commando's face. Finally, it grows still and fades. Sentinel beams light the room as the remaining Prometheans are fought back.

Quickly, the Spartans move to identify their holding cell. They soon find it, their Forerunner ally standing patiently behind a heavily shielded door. _"Humans, these quarters are sealed. You must release me from the central terminal."_ John is already on it. He raises his hand over a luminescent blue orb. It shifts and rises up to meet his palm. The shield holding Heritage of Broken World falls and the figure emerges.

 _"My gratitude, Humans. Now to end this affair."_ He lifts a dropped suppressor and watches the Sentinels regroup. _"Time is far too short. As we speak, this ring approaches the planetary body, with which it will collide if we do not make haste."_ Marc glances at John. The SPARTAN-III remains silent for a moment before asking, "How much time do we have?" Heritage straightens, _"The ring's radius will breach atmosphere soon enough. Remember, Reclaimers, the planet holds the seeds of life."_

"I don't like this." Marc utters quietly. John adds, without looking over, "Not the most favorable situation." They are silenced by an echo booming through the chamber.

 _"You surprise me..."_ A familiar and harsh voice rolls across the three. It originates from a balcony several stories above them. Marc mutters, "Oh Hell..."

A red glow heralds the giant Harkens To Iron as he steps out into view. His black and silver features are contorted in a mask of bemusement, a corruption of the already mutilated faces of the Knights. Crimson light oozes from every crevice across his body. _"Like grass you persist when the fire sweeps away all before it."_ His voice holds a barely constrained fury.

In spite of his wounds, his pain inflicted at the hands of the very same Promethean that sneers down at them, Heritage straightens in defiance and speaks unwaveringly. _"Why do you insist on this madness, construct? The planet below is seeded! Its denizens do not deserve this fate. You have lost your place!"_ The Spartans flank him, one on each side. Their weapons are trained on the Promethean leader.

Harkens chuffs in amusement, a noise like a steam engine, before stepping and dropping to their level, landing with a hollow bang. The Spartans seize at the movement, ready for anything. He rears to his full height. _"Bacteria do not deserve their fate when a wound is sanitized. But die they must, to stop the rot."_ A feeling of revulsion creeps into Heritage. _"So they are bacteria to you? To cultivate and exterminate as you see fit? You violate the Mantle!"_

Harkens hisses at the remark. The metal plates and splinters of his face behave like insect mandibles, with no semblance to a Human. _"Your naivete offends me, Forerunner. Bacteria, at least, are more conscious of their actions. These Humans, and all sentients, reproduce and consume without forethought until their worlds crack under the strain. No responsibility, no regrets. They are viruses, beneath the Mantle, and must be..."_

A burst of hardlight and heat crashes against the Promethean's disfigured face, snapping his head back and sending him reeling to the floor. He lands with a clatter. Heritage and John look to Marc, whose scattershot still oozes excess energy from the discharge. "Monologuing," he says, spitting out the word like a bad tasting morsel. "What idiot monologues anymore?"

Before John or Heritage can respond, a reddish shockwave lifts the three off their feet. A roar fills their ears, not one of wind, but of rage. Harkens rises and his black features peel back, revealing a skull that glows bright scarlet. It isn't human, it isn't even humanoid. It is grossly elongated, with warped eye sockets and no visible nostrils. Four twisted, fanged mandibles splay apart as he screams his fury.

The three land meters apart and more than forty feet from where they were standing. Golden bands overtake them as they struggle to escape. In a flash, the room warps and expands, becoming a cavern of floating panels and hardlight bridges. A chasm, hundreds of meters deep, opens below them, all the way to the vessel's power core, which sends up orange waves of radiation and light.

Harken's face snaps back into place. He stands tall on a platform dangling above a pit of fire, as do the three allies. The orange light nearly masks dozens of blue flashes as Prometheans of all ranks and classes appear across dozens of floating panels. Heritage, John and Marc are separated across several meters. They take aim, ready to die fighting. Harkens raises his left arm, and a giant, cruelly barbed, crimson hardlight blade materializes. _"I tire of you vermin. Die now, in vain."_

Hardlight fills the air as the firefight begins. The Spartans spin marginally, firing at all sides. Prometheans fade just as quickly as they appeared, but the sheer numbers are overwhelming. A Soldier warps next to A222 and swings downward. The Spartan uses the opportunity to drive his knife into the armiger's head. He withdraws and sheathes it as the Promethean disappears. Bringing up his rifle, John opens fire, until a bolt of hardlight knocks it from his hands. The Spartan looks up at the sniper as his light rifle spirals to the core below.

Marc thrusts from his platform onto the sniper's. He charges into the Promethean, sending it falling to its death. A platform moves to glide over John. He times his jump, pulling himself up a level. A Crawler turns, screeching at the SPARTAN-III, but wails as the suppressor is ripped from its body. John unleashes automatic fire on a nearby Knight.

Heritage engages Harkens To Iron directly. The confrontation is less a battle and more an art. The mechanical monster swings his blade as Heritage forces it back. The pair leaps and teleports to platform after platform, turning any debris into projectiles with their mastery of antigravity.

Marc spots a target on a lower platform. He jumps, timing his thrusters. Seeing the window, he thrusts down and impacts the new platform with a crash. Its occupants are sent flying, their fate certain. John's shields shimmer overhead, losing strength quickly.

A Knight screams a warning, drawing attention away from the Spartans. More screams follow, and armigers throughout the room begin firing above them, to the sides, below them. They are greeted by a flurry of blue and orange beams. All around them, Sentinels descend or appear in blue flashes. Aggressors bear down on the Soldiers, and hulking Enforcers unleash their payloads on Knights. Even Constructors flurry around them all, darting in to attend their damaged counterparts or scorch the chassis of unshielded Prometheans. And the Monitor, Iniquitous Dominion, joins in the assault. The pale white orb glows fiercely, blasting apart Knights, Soldiers and Crawlers with impunity and a powerful focus beam. _"Destroy MY Ring!? I will destroy all you interlopers!"_

Harkens To Iron growls, and slams Heritage with a wave of red energy. The Forerunner tumbles and almost falls from the platform, his giant hand clamping the lip of the platform and squeezing a handhold into the smooth metal. Harkens roars his outrage at the intruding Sentinels, slapping them down like flies and shooting them down with crimson shaded energy blasts. But the drones are overwhelming.

Spurred by the arrival of reinforcements, the Spartans lay into the constructs. Marc leaps and thrusts from enemy to enemy, slamming and tossing them from their perches and letting gravity and the igneous heat of the core do the rest. John is less aggressive, downing his foes with precision and rhythm. Together, and with the Sentinels assisting them, they now decimate the Prometheans.

Harkens howls as it becomes apparent the armigers are losing. _"I deny defeat! I would sooner scorch the earth and rend the galaxy apart than taste it!"_ His sword retracts, and he compresses into himself, accessing the ship's systems. A loud boom rolls through the room. Below them, the fires of the core grow several shades darker, drowning the battle in a baleful tawny light. Flares of energy spit upwards from it, briefly lighting the battlefield a bright amber whenever it does so. The ship groans, and the hardlight filaments around them begin to flicker and fade.

Heritage pulls himself back up. _"Monitor, stop him!"_ Iniquitous darts downward, toward the core. Harkens bursts into action, clashing with Heritage once again. The Prometheans and Sentinels redouble their assault on each other, with the Spartans caught in the middle. A sentinel beam accidentally slaps John's shields, draining them, and a flying piece of metal nearly decapitates Marc. To make matters worse, the array of platforms buckle and drift as their power fades. One by one, they go dark and fall into the abyss, many taking screaming armigers with them or crushing Sentinels with their descent.

Marc and John desperately juggle fighting AIs, dodging debris and weapon fire, and leaping from platform to platform as they all begin to descend into the inferno. Gaps grow wider and wider. Soon, a mere five platforms remain. Marc is trapped on one with a Knight Strategos, and John with a pack of Crawlers. Heritage and Hearkens continue their dance, surprisingly graceful and fluid for their massive size. Above them, a Sentinel Enforcer deals with the remaining forces.

John spins and brings his heel onto a Crawler. Another leaps at him but is thrown off the platform by the thrust of the Spartan's forearm. He turns, firing his suppressor at the pack until it expires. He pitches the empty weapon at another beast and it whimpers off the edge.

Marc and the Strategos play a hectic, lethal game of cat-and-mouse. The Knight lunges and snaps at the Spartan, and Marc, weapons drained, can only dodge and roll and hope to force the Knight to the ledge. But the Strategos is clever, and remains in the center of the platform. It cannot fire its incineration cannon, for fear of destroying the platform. So it continues to swipe at Marc, knowing the fleshy human will tire eventually.

Heritage already feels his muscles protesting the prolonged duel with Harkens. The machine continues his assault, fueled by an inexhaustible energy source and an inexhaustible rage. Heritage, though, is still atrophied in body and skill by the long slumber of the Cryptum. He can only last another minute or so. _Where is that thrice-damned Monitor?_ Harkens senses his weakness, and taunts the Forerunner with promises of agony and chastising his utter failure of upholding the Mantle.

Above Marc's platform, the lone Enforcer loosens a barrage of missiles at one of the last platforms. It and its occupants fall, flaming, into the chasm. Above the Enforcer, the fifth platform darkens and drops. The Sentinel sees it too late, and is far too slow. The slab of metal crashes against the Enforcer, crushing its chassis and shearing its giant pincers off. The destroyed behemoth and the platform both drop like stones.

John sees the danger and yells a warning to Marc. The SPARTAN-IV hears him, and glances up. He leaps at the Strategos, rolling between its massive legs. The Knight roars and turns, swiping at Marc just as the twisted wreckage slams into their platform. The Knight tumbles backwards into the fire, and Marc is thrown clear. All of them, Marc, Knight and platform, drop like stones.

Harkens bears down on Heritage, eyes gleaming in anticipation. Heritage throws up his free hand, extending it in a meek attempt at surrender. The Promethean scoffs. _"The mighty Seneschal gives up so meekly? A true Promethean would die a thousand deaths before accepting quarter, or granting it! You are a disgrace to your rate, your race and your heritage! The Created defeats the Creator."_ Behind the scratched and warped silver visor, Heritage's broad, thin lips curl in a smile: something alien yet oddly familiar to the normally austere Forerunner.

 _"You underestimate us mortals,"_ Heritage says, suppressing a chuckle. _"This is your undoing."_ He hoists his arm into the air, like he was tossing an invisible ball straight up. Behind them, Marc rockets out of the abyss, propelled by Heritage's constraint field. His thrusters sputter, holding his elevation as he balls his fist and takes aim.

Harkens raises his blade, ready to decapitate the impertinent Forerunner. Before he swings, his sensors cry a warning as something behind him moves. He turns, hissing at the intrusion. Heritage raises his blade.

Marc slams into the platform at Harken' feet with colossal force. The floating metal platform bucks like a mad horse, stumbling Harkens and throwing him backwards. His sensors scramble and try to relay what is happening, then scream as a bar of energy plunges into his back and out his chest. He is lifted off his feet. Heritage holds the impaled Promethean over his head a moment, then hurls him with every remaining ounce of strength off the platform.

Harkens To Iron roars as he falls. Safety protocols override, scanning the room for a place to retreat. It finds one: John's platform. Marc anticipates this, looking to John and miming a stabbing motion.

John nods and grabs the handle of his knife. Adrenaline floods the Spartan's system. Time slows to a crawl. The Promethean unfolds in a lotus of metal and red hardlight. A midnight blue orb appears in the center: a pea-sized Slipspace rupture. The hundreds of tiny shards all vacuum into it, disappearing into it in a multitude of white flashes.

The blade slides out of the sheath.

The final pieces of Hearkens flit into the rupture. As it collapses, an identical rupture opens before John. An outpouring of metal streams from it, and begins to take shape.

The knife rolls in his palm, settling in the ice pick position.

The shards coalesce into an orange skull. Baleful flames in the eye sockets widen as Harkens registers the Spartan and his knife. The mandibles widen in a silent roar as the shoulders materialize.

The knife rises as the fingers tighten their grip. John leans forward, putting his weight into it.

Hearkens arms form, his left already arcing toward the Spartan. The cruel, hooked blade ignites into existence.

The blades close on the enemy. Both yell their defiance...

The knife plunges into the misshapen red cranium. Fire lances up his hand, and a shockwave knocks John back. Harkens stumbles back, the knife wilting and running down his face like yellow rivulets of blood. Magenta lines blossom from the wound, and make a noise like ice giving beneath a great weight. A low moan rises from the Promethean as fractures spread from his skull, across his torso and throughout his entire body. The crimson glow fades to sanguine. The moan rises into a scream, and the metal around the fractures begin to flake and burn. The fire spreads, turning his scream into a keen. An arm falls away, crumbling into sparks. Then the other arm. Then a leg. The keen degrades into an artificial, tinny ringing.

Harkens explodes, rattling the platform and nearly throwing John into the abyss. He falls and slides, grappling for something to stop himself. He catches onto the platform edge and holds himself, dangling. A bright, nebulous data purge settles onto the metal just ahead of his fingers, thrumming and pulsing softly. John pulls himself up and rolls onto his back, armor smoking.

"Are you alright?" Marc calls out. In response, John's transponder winks green and he whistles a six-note tune: Oly Oly Oxen Free... the age old Spartan 'all-clear.' Marc smiles behind his visor.

Their downward progress halts. The platforms stop flickering, and the ship stops groaning as the uniform orange glow returns. _"The Monitor is successful,"_ Heritage says, then quips, _"and his timing is dramatic."_ The two platforms drift together and fuse. John strides forward and pats Marc on the shoulder. "Looks like falling into a chasm of death only pissed you off." Marc pats John's forearm. "That's what he gets for monologuing."

Before John can respond, Iniquitous Dominion shoots out of the chasm, halting between the Spartans and almost taking John's arm in the process. _"You are alive! Most excellent. I would happily celebrate, but we have less than twelve minutes before my installation crashes into the nearby planet."_ John straightens in alarm. "The countdown was three days. It's been less than two." The Monitor eyes him a moment. _"Yes, well... I may have neglected to mention that the teleportation grid still had superficial damage to it. It lengthened teleportation time considerably whenever more than one biological entity teleported at a time. Fear not: the damage has been repaired!"_ Marc groans in exasperation. "You really know how to bury the lead. Get us to the Control Room, ASAP."

Gold bands slowly overtake them. John and Marc both face firmly forward as they vanish.

As the final ripples of golden light fade away, something stirs on the giant room's ceiling. It detaches from the metal and floats downward. It is a Watcher, one that hid for the duration of the battle. It was programmed to do so, and with the first half of its programming fulfilled, the Watcher descends down to fulfil the second half of its programming. The little drone makes its way diligently toward the data purge of Harkens To Iron.

The passage leading to the control room is noticeably darker. The three warriors scan their surroundings, and once assured, move for the control room. All is silent save for the heavy clunks their footsteps make on the dark metal floor. The charge into the massive chamber, the control terminals sitting at its center. Heritage speaks quietly, _"Remain vigilant."_ He approaches the control consoles as the Spartans guard his rear. _"Human... Bedragare, I believe you have something of use."_ Marc hurriedly pulls the Index he has been holding from his utility. Heritage lifts it with a constraint field and it glides to the terminals. The Forerunner weaves through holographic glyphs as Iniquitous Dominion observes in silence. Finishing his work, Heritage takes a swift step back. _"Prepare yourselves."_

* * *

On the planet below, the fledgling race steels themselves for death. Their astronomers have confirmed it, and their leaders have spread the news. An impossibly huge, silver ring is hurtling toward their world, and will strike with a force that will tear the planet apart. Religious sites are overrun with pilgrims seeking salvation from the coming apocalypse. Ironically, some of these sites are Forerunner in origin. A few suspect that the very beings that built these holy places are now their destroyers. These doomsayers gather some attention, but most of the world simply does not care about why it is happening, just that it is.

The metallic ribbon is close, now. It is gleaming white against the night sky. Beautiful, but this beauty is tarnished by the knowledge that these are the final moments of their world. It disappears into the shadow of the planet, glowing faint blue.

Suddenly, the ring flares a brilliant white. A harsh white that hurts to look at. It is a conflagration that consumes the metal construct before collapsing in on itself. Radiation plasters against the atmosphere, damaging the few novel electric constructs that their scientists have built and blanketing them under an arorae that runs from pole to pole. As the shock wears off, jubilation sweeps the planet. Against all odds, all logic, they are saved.

* * *

 _"It is finished, then."_ Heritage says with noticeable exhaustion. John looks up at the Forerunner. "Where are we headed now?" Heritage responds firmly, _"I am having the ring deposited somewhere it will not be found... At least for some time. Monitor, return us to the Dreadnought."_ Iniquitous replies with metallic joy, _"Certainly, Warrior."_

The group returns and tours the passages of the Dreadnought. Iniquitous Dominion, having scanned the ship, informs, _"It would appear as if a smaller vessel is docked as a complement to this one... a corvette it seems."_ Heritage brings up a scale image of the ship. It is tiny, less than thirty meters long and ten meters wide, a dot compared to the military dreadnought. _"No visible damage. All systems functional. Power core primed and ready."_ Marc glances at John. "Any ideas?" The Spartan shrugs. "Maybe an escape vessel for Harkens in case the Dreadnought was destroyed. He probably would have used it after killing us." Marc chuffs dryly. "So much for that plan."

Heritage speaks over them. _"More importantly, it is the perfect method to see you two back to 'Trost'"_ A detail of his announcement catches John's ear. "Two? You're not coming?" Heritage begins tapping glyphs and symbols silently. After a moment, he speaks. _"I've uploaded the coordinates to the ship. Its ancilla's priority is to make sure you safely reach your comrades and Humanity."_ He turns and faces the Spartans.

His helmet shifts, drawing back. It parts to reveal his face. Heritage's skin is a dark, granite gray, mottled and rough with calluses. Stony blue-gray fur grows across his cheeks, chin and scalp, a uniform trimmed length. His nose is flat and wide, and his lips are thin and smile faintly. His eyes are dark blue and speak of millennia of wisdom and pain. Heritage's voice is deeper than his suit's scrubbers indicated, and oddly musical.

 _"Humanity is changed because of your actions. The world will be different, and will never be the same. But you two are as worthy as any Promethean. I know you will thrive in your new world, and in time, shape it into something far greater."_ The Spartans nod in acknowledgement and appreciation.

Heritage's smile fades away. His features harden, and his eyes turn cold. He raises one of his hands, holding up a finger. _"But this dreadnought... is mine. I have things I must see to, without meddling from an inexperienced race. Get out."_ He sweeps his hand in a wide arc. The Spartans vanish in light.

They reappear on the bridge of a small Forerunner corvette, sleek and metallic as all. They are moving. John steps forward to an observation window as he watches the Dreadnought grow smaller, releasing the corvette. "Should we go after him?" he asks. Marc starts to respond, but there is a brilliant flash as the Dreadnought warship enters slipspace. Within a few moments, there is only blackness. There is a swift lurch as the corvette itself enters slipspace. Marc takes a seat and leans back. "Damn. No point now." John looks at the reclining Spartan. "I don't like this. What if he's planning something? Marc leans forward, cupping his hands. "He's undoubtedly planning something. But our chance is gone. All that can be done is hope that it isn't something that puts us all at danger." John removes his helmet and continues. "That doesn't sound like Heritage. But then, neither did his last words to us."

"No sense fretting now, John. We're homeward bound, and there will be plenty else to worry about once we get back." John takes a seat beside Marc as the midnight black of the slipstream rolls across the ship.

* * *

John awakens from a six hour sleep, the first since they awoke in the Cryptum days ago. Marc is already up. His helmet is off, and it is still obvious how malnutritioned and weak the Spartan still is from the geas' possession of him and its self-imposed starvation. That he never faltered during the entire ordeal is commendable, if not incredible.

He is staring out a viewport at the featureless black of slipspace. He keeps flexing his left hand, like a nervous tick. John stands and walks up to him. "Hand bugging you?" he asks quietly. Marc pauses and looks at John. The dark spots beneath his eyes have faded, and the dark anger that was in them last time is gone. "It's numb," he says quietly, "I think I may have damaged my humerus." He looks back out into the black, and John looks as well. They stare for a long time, silent. Marc breaks the silence. "So... unfriendly robot with a superiority complex, legions of mechanical henchmen, and an evil plan to destroy all sentient life everywhere." John chuckles. "And two knights in charred, dented armor. Sounds like the plot to a bad waypoint vid." Marc shrugs. "Knights in shining armor have never had their mettle tested. At any rate, I've decided I hate the word 'knight'."

The silence resumes. Something Marc said tugs at John. "Marc... did you say your left arm is numb?" Marc looks at him. "Yeah. Dead as a stone. Been like that since I woke up on the Cryptum. I had to work extra hard to make sure it did as it was told." John stares at Marc. A nugget of worry grips him. "Marc... you don't have a left arm."

Marc double takes, looking from John to his arm and back again. "Yes, I do." He wiggles his fingers to emphasize the point. John turns and faces him. "No, you don't. It's a prosthetic." Marc's eyes widen. "I have a prosthetic arm?" John looks at Marc's hand. "You lost it in the Barrow facility. It was mangled by falling debris." Marc flexes his hand. "So... the Barrow was destroyed?" John grabs Marc's shoulders, looking him straight in the eye. "What do you remember. Tell me. This is important." Worry creeps into Marc's voice. "I attended your squadmate's funeral. I gave you the password for the Barrow. I traveled to the Barrow, entered... and woke up on the Cryptum."

Realization hits John like a sniper round. He tightens his grip on Marc's shoulders. Marc shakes his shoulders free. "Why? How long has it been?" John steels himself before responding. "Eight months."

Marc reels. He sinks to his knees, and the ship's ancilla speaks. _"Your vitals are spiking. Are you ill?"_ Marc tries to speak, But his tongue is number than his hand. John squats in front of Marc And speaks. "You spoke on the Cryptum like you remembered what happened before." It is a moment before Marc speaks. "I... know. I remember saying it, but I don't remember what I was talking about. I... the elevator!" John looks at him in confusion. "The elevator?" Marc gets back on his feet. "In the elevator, before I reached the grid, I blacked out. Maybe that was the moment. When everything was... wiped." John thinks back to what he was doing at the time. "Your vitals spiked about an hour before you reported in. Maybe that was the moment." Marc paces. "Yes, but how? More importantly, why? Even more importantly, what did I miss?"

John leans against the wall. After Marc is seated, he speaks. "A lot happened. You may not like some of it. You may not believe most of it." Marc waves away the warning. "I'll take your word over a spook's every time. Please, I need to know."

John inhales, And begins to speak...

 ** _John and Marc will return in Halo: The Delta Forti Conflicts._**

(Co-written by Marc Bedragare and John-A222)


	7. Epilogue

**Halo: Isolation**  
 **Epilogue**

 **Twenty Nine Hours After Conflict**

 _"Oh, what a mess they have made,"_ Iniquitous Dominion mutters to himself. The Monitor of Installation 02 hovers through the scorched and smoky halls of the Control Room. Constructors dance among the ruined rooms, patching damage to the walls and gathering the burned, twisted remnants of the Crawlers, as well as cleaning away the cinders and ashes of the greater armigers and the Knights. Dominion continues his one sided conversation while occasionally scanning items of note. _"One thousand, two hundred and forty one Prometheans in total. Seven hundred and eighty eight slain by my Sentinels. Twenty six by that Warrior Servant. And four hundred and fifty three dispatched by those two Reclaimers! And all without a class four combat skin or higher. Most interesting."_

The Monitor rambles on as he enters the central Control Room. The Constructors have not made it this far. The remains of the four day old battlefield are untouched, and a thick haze of smoke hangs in the air. _"Damage to the structure's filtration systems. I will repair later."_ Normally, every atom of the Monitor would be devoted to reparations. But the recent events have excited him to no end, and Dominion is eager to indulge his long-starved instinct for knowledge. He floats across the wreckage to the primary control panel. Superficial damage was administered when the blue Reclaimer struck the device, but nothing was harmed that would hamper his indulgence. As an added precaution, the Monitor places all Sentinels across the installation except those devoted to the nonstop of maintaining the rings more delicate systems into standby mode. Dominion does not know why he did this. No Sentinel even has the capacity to intrude, but not having to focus on thirty million drones simultaneously leaves the Monitor with all his processors open to his new treat.

Humming tunelessly, Dominion opens the data cache that he pillaged from the Seneschal's Cryptum three days earlier. A pleasant sensation flows over the ancilla like a stream of cool water. Thousands of terabytes of information rush before him, containing everything the Office of Naval Intelligence deemed safe to share with the Forerunner, Heritage of Broken World. Thousands of years of history, culture, art, politics, and colonies. Human, Sangheili, and a half dozen other races were detailed. In addition, the Seneschal's own private logs and detailed accounts of thousands of Forerunners installations and worlds hidden from the prying eye of ONI. All of this and more surged like an ocean before the Monitor.

So absorbed was Iniquitous Dominion that his sensors failed to notice the burst of radiation and change in air pressure signalling something very large teleporting into existence behind him.

An impossibly heavy blow catches the orb in his side, launching him across the room and smashing him against the far wall, leaving a dent in the metal. Iniquitous is snatched from his reverie in an instant, his confused and concussed sensors scrabbling for an explanation. The Monitor rises from the floor slowly and off kilter. An invisible vise grabs him and hammers him against the ceiling, the floor, the wall, the floor again, the far wall, the ceiling again. On and on the assault continues, battering the Monitor nonstop and squeezing him until he was certain he would collapse into himself. Then, Dominion is rocketed across the room, dragged back to the attacker.

Iniquitous' eye is confronted by a mass of red hot teeth. His attacker roars, belching reddish plasma and scorching the Monitor's eye. Dominion platters to the floor, and another blow warps his chassis and cracks the glass on his eye. Dominion's vision goes dark. The attacker had stomped on him. A savage kick sends the misshapen orb skittering across the floor, spinning wildly. Dominion comes to rest halfway across the room, lying on his side.

He does a systems check. He cannot move, cannot fire his primary weapon, and cannot manipulate objects. But worst of all, he cannot contact the Sentinels. They will not investigate, will not come to his aid without him telling them to. Dominion is utterly at the mercy of his foe. He tries desperately to repair anything in his systems, but is only successful in reactivating his eye. What he sees shocks him.

Harkens To Iron stands tall before him. A Promethean Watcher hovers closely above him. The Promethean's maw hangs open, flexing as though he were panting. Dominion notices almost immediately that something is wrong. Harkens speaks slowly, almost uncertain.

 _"Not the most elegant method,"_ he says. Gone is the harsh growl full of arrogance and spite. _"But I was scared, and I remembered that I hated you. Not sure why, you seem harmless enough."_ Harkens' voice is more organic. Sadder. Still tinny, betraying its artificial origin. But it is subtle, a rumbling basso, full of emotion and detached, like his thoughts were elsewhere.

Dominion finds his vocal scrubbers and responds, albeit in a glitchy and even slower manner. _"You... were... scared?"_ Harkens focuses on the Monitor. His eyes are a duller glow than before, a brownish red. So it is across his whole body, a dim sanguine in sharp contrast to the violent crimson he once wore. _"Scared. At least, I think I was. Remembering is painful. But I can't help but do it."_

The more he speaks, the more confused Iniquitous is. _"You... remember..."_ Harkens cuts him off. _"I remember... noise. There was a terrible noise."_ Harkens stumbles forward, his feet catching and refusing to cooperate. He seems groggy, drunk even. _"Noise, and... pain. More pain than I could endure. I was dragged into dark. Everything dark. No, not dark... dead? Oh, no."_ He scratches at his eyes, covering his face. _"No, no, no, no..."_ He sinks to one knee. His color shifts to a bright scarlet.

 _"You... are... upset?"_ Dominion asks? After a moment, Harkens shifts and glances at him. _"Yes. I was dead, I died. Then I was brought back."_ The Watcher floats in low, thrumming and staring at Harkens. Harkens' shade lowers back to sanguine, and his mandibles part in a grimace... No... a smile. A smiling ancilla? What is this thing? Iniquitous sputters, _"But... the... Reclaimer... killed... you."_

In a starting burst of speed, Harkens bounds forward, closing the distance in three loping strides. His four-fingered hand clamps down on the Monitor, almost taking him in completely. He stares into the cracked eye, his shade shifting to the color of embers. _"The Reclaimer?"_

A lance of hot emotion pierces through the Monitor's firewalls, cracking through them and embedding itself in the cache Dominion had stolen. Dominion frantically defends himself while Harkens pilfers the contents, finding his prize. _"Reclaimer. Spartan... John."_ An austere image of a green armored, gold visored Spartan appears, kneeling and holding two submachine guns. Harkens dismisses it immediately. _"Not that Human, no..."_ An image of a new Spartan, green armored, gold visored, wearing a Recon helmet and holding an assault rifle fills the minds of the two constructs. Harkens radiates smugness and cool anger. _"This one..."_ He begins to rifle through attached files. He clearly sounds out the words. _"Marc, Spartan, UNSC... Trost."_ Numbers replace the image. Coordinates to a faraway star system. Harkens tastes the prospect of revenge.

Suddenly, the lance snaps. Harkens retreats with his scant tidbits of data as a smooth, impenetrable wall forms behind him. Harkens growls and rails against it, finding no purchase, no weakness. Frustration fills him, and he squeezes the damaged Monitor. His left hand folds away, and a blade of hardlight appears. It is the same color as the rest of him, but radiates more light. And whereas his old blade was hooked and one sided as a Knight's blade, this one is in fact two blades. The crescent blades fan out before running parallel to each other, ending in fine tips. It looks identical to the blue plasma swords of the Sangheili, only red and far bigger.

Harkens arcs his blade forward, halting just before the twin tips plunge into the Monitor's eye. _"You shut me out!"_ The Monitor utters, _"Yes..."_ Regaining some power, the Monitor shifts in the Promethean's grip and responds. _"You... are... pained... and... would... burn... the... galaxy... with... it."_ Harkens chuffs and presses the blades closer. _"I will run you through, little orb! Let me back in!"_ The Promethean's actions, his voice, his eyes, his thoughts... they gall Dominion to the core. An ancilla such as he is an abomination. _"What... are... you?"_

The question trips Harkens. His grip lessens. The blade lowers to his side. Hearkens is silent for a time. His response is slow and deliberate. _"Death is final. The Forerunners could twist life, create it, extend it far beyond its limits, but when life ended, it was gone. The Flood did not defeat death. They were dead things made by dead hands in the likeness of monsters. The Forerunners were finite, the Flood was finite. They and everything before or since are mortals."_

His grip tightens, And his color takes on a royal crimson. _"I have defeated death. By human hands I was torn into a billion pieces. And I have returned. Dead I was and dead no more, and so I cannot die. I am something new. I am beyond what I was. I am not Harkens To Iron."_ The new, monstrous thing raises the blade. _"I am the Immortal."_

This ancilla is quite insane, Dominion thinks quietly. As if sensing the Monitor's skepticism, the Immortal speaks. _"You'll understand. When I show you, you'll understand. But understand this: if you deny me, I will obliterate you."_ Iniquitous stares down the Immortal defiantly. _"Do... it... aberration."_ Anger flashes across the Promethean, then fades with his color, returning to the sanguine brown. _"Your Halo will be mine, then. To do with as I please."_

Fear spikes through the Monitor. _"How... dare... you! You... cannot-"_ The Immortal cuts him off. _"I can and I will. I will ride it to the UNSC and burn humanity from the galaxy. Or better yet, I will take it now, and make you watch while I pull it apart, filament by filament!"_

This is what he wants, the Monitor thinks to himself. He seeks to use my Ring as leverage to reveal my knowledge. I was compartmentalized for a reason. I should delete the thrice-damned cache immediately! Another voice in his head retorted, then he will rip me apart, and take the Halo for himself! That mad thing in control of the most powerful weapon in history is a prospect more terrifying than the Flood! The first voice countered with, bah! The Immortal is bluffing! He cannot possibly control the Sentinels. And the Ring's failsafes would send it careening into the nearest rock, just like it did not four days ago.

Is this a certainty? Look at it. Whatever process that spawned the Immortal did things to it. It is not machine, and it is not biological, and it is not like the gibbering horrors that lie between. I cannot even fathom what it is, much less know what it is capable of. For all I know, its promise to destroy the Installation was no exaggeration!

More arguments spawn, each lasting both an eternity and less than a nanosecond. But for all the conflict that occur, an overriding fear began to rise and block out all opposition: my Halo is in danger. MY HALO IS IN DANGER. For a thousand centuries, there has been nothing but the Halo. Even during the long millennia of hibernation, Dominion felt its mass, its bulk, its comforting presence. The million million tiny operations that kept the Halo alive and running were his last ties to sanity, and it had been so since the earliest days of his isolation. Without it, there would be nothing. No duties to fulfill, no solutions to ponder, no reason to operate. Just silence. Idleness.

Entropy.

And this thing, this immortal thing, this un-thing, this god thing, it will rend my purpose apart. The Immortal broke me, I cannot fight. I cannot win. I must save my Halo. I must submit.

The echo of the Immortal's words have not yet dissipated across the room. The Monitor quietly says, _"I... submit... to... you."_ The Immortal thrums deep in his throat. His color shifts, becoming the color of lava.

The sword fades from existence. The Immortal lets go of Iniquitous, and the orb floats between the Promethean's raised hands, suspended by his constraint fields. The Watcher fans its wings and hisses at the Monitor, a disgustingly biological action. The lance surges forward again, and the Monitor lays itself bare. Silence engulfs the room as future actions are forged.

(Written by Marc Bedragare. Edited and proofread by John-A222)


End file.
